


Atlas

by hail_writes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, hints of spice??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hail_writes/pseuds/hail_writes
Summary: Din Djarin has a nasty habit of carrying the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders.
Relationships: Din Djarin x reader, The Mandalorian x reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	Atlas

You knew Din Djarin wasn’t gentle with himself. He never was. 

He had a heart of gold, that you knew--but after years of strict adherence to the Code, he had shut himself off. True, genuine happiness became some unfamiliar fantasy to him, something that would forever be unattainable. Something that, over time, he lost the need to reach for. 

Softness was a foreign concept to him. Gentleness was unwarranted, touch was a shock to his system. 

And  _ comfort _ , the strangest of all ideas, was nonexistent.  _ Comfort _ was left behind in that bunker with the blown-off hinges, years and years ago. 

He was strict with himself, he was rough at the edges, and he would carry the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders as if it was his sole responsibility. He liked to punish himself that way--for what, you didn’t know. 

Sometimes, though, the weight of the worlds would become too heavy for him, and he would slip into your cottage--your  _ home _ \--with hunched shoulders, heat radiating from his beskar as he slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. You would rush to him with one of your most heartfelt grins, but he wouldn’t allow himself to touch you. He never would after his missions--because though he wanted to,  _ so badly _ , he wouldn’t risk touching you with the dirt and grime of his sins. 

Another punishment. 

Most times you would accept it, merely brushing a hand over his bare cheek and letting him clean himself in the fresher before you truly  _ touched _ him. But this time, in the purple hues of the morning light, you couldn’t take it. He had been gone for  _ so long _ \--

You collapsed into his lap and buried your face in the crook of his neck before he could react. Maker, his  _ helmet _ wasn’t even off, but you missed him. You couldn’t help yourself. 

“ _ Cyar’ika _ ,” he called, his voice thick through the modulator. His hands remained at his sides, clenched on the lip of the seat. You knew he wouldn’t touch you out of his own volition--not when he was like this. 

Instead, you tilted your head, pulling down the neck of his cape enough to kiss the skin there. He tensed, but didn’t pull away. 

“I missed you,” you whispered. And you tried--you  _ tried _ \--to keep your voice level, but your eyes were burning and his body was warm and you couldn’t keep your  _ thoughts straight _ \--

It had been so long.  _ So long _ . 

“. . . I know,” he said quietly, his body slowly relaxing against yours. You wished he didn’t sound so broken. 

Swallowing back the thickness in your throat, you eventually pulled your head from his neck and slid your hands to the cheeks of his helmet, pulling up. A quiet, soft  _ hiss _ \--

And then he was there. 

His hair was damp with sweat, his curls matted to his forehead at odd angles. And there were streaks of dried blood across much of his face, and there were some fresh cuts that were scabbed over--

He looked  _ tired,  _ as he always did. It was a type of exhaustion that your kisses and touches could soothe, but never heal. A weariness that only a lifetime of loneliness could create. 

Slowly you leaned forward, cupping his neck as you pressed your forehead against his. And then he released a breath you both knew he had been holding for weeks, closing his eyes as you held him. He allowed his gloved hands to brush your calves, only slightly. 

“ _ Ner yaim _ ,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything. 

_ My home _ . 

Something he only called  _ you _ \--not the cottage, not the planet you both lived on, not the Razor Crest settled down the hill that he had lived in for so many years. At the end of the day, when the stars collapsed and the thes were dead and gone, those things would remain expendable. No, his home will always be  _ you _ , the one who taught him comfort and love and everything gentle that he had never allowed himself to feel--because you would never fade, never rust and slip through his fingers like sand. You would be with him, even after his inevitable demise. You were  _ home _ . 

You felt the moment that he began to relax completely, his fingers twitching against your legs and his head slowly pressing into your shoulder. And you both sat there for what felt like an eternity, breathing each other in until the morning suns bled through the kitchen window. But you eventually pulled yourself from him, standing between his legs as he simply stared at you. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you offered quietly. One hand was still cradling his cheek--you couldn’t find it within yourself to let go. 

Gently, you tugged at his hands, pulling at the tips of his fingers until his gloves came loose and fell to the floor. His shoulder pauldrons came next, then his vambraces, and one after the other until he was left in his base layers and the armor was in a pile by his feet. Only then did he stand up completely, letting his fingers ghost over your frame with his head bent. His eyes were closed as you grasped his fingers, intertwining them with yours. 

You stepped back once, then twice, and he followed with heavy-lidded eyes as you padded down the hall, past your bedroom and straight to the refresher. 

He undressed completely as you slipped from the room to check on the child--still fast asleep atop your bed, thank the Maker--before creeping back in as silently as you could, careful not to disturb Din in his half-asleep stupor. For a moment, you watched as he stood below the running shower head, one hand pressed against the wall as dirt and sweat trickled down his skin. His head was bent, exposing a newer, sloppily patched cut at the base of his neck--one that matched one on the small of his back, another his hip, a third the side of his thigh. But as you glanced him over, nothing seemed especially concerning. A breath of relief bled from your lips. 

You couldn’t hear Din breathing over the water, but by the stiffness in his body, you weren’t really sure if he  _ was _ . Knowing him, he was likely just beginning to process the past month’s events. Likely feeling guilt over it--each blaster fired, each bounty caught, each body piled at his feet. Mourning over the only way of life he ever knew. 

He was so adrift in his own thoughts that he nearly jumped when he felt your hands around his waist, having stripped off your own clothes at the door and snuck in behind him. 

“Hodayc, _ ”  _ he called, removing his hand from the wall to hold your own, “bah parer ‘kay ni solus bah nynir.”  _ Clever _ ,  _ to wait until I’m most vulnerable to strike.  _

You had leaned your forehead on the skin between his shoulder blades as he spoke, and you  _ almost _ grinned at his coy little remark. But despite his flirtations, his body was still tense, and his voice was strained. Forced. He was trying to distract you. 

Carefully, you removed your hands from his, skirting your fingers around his cuts before raising them to rest atop his shoulders. He stiffened even more as you began to rub the muscles there--but then he eased up after a moment, and he released a quiet breath. 

You fell into a few minutes of blissful silence, and Din nearly broke apart at your touch. But still, he didn’t turn around, didn’t touch anything other than your hands--

“Talk to me, Din,” you prompted, your voice brushing up his back in soft waves. It was something you said often--he was accustomed to silence, after all, suffocating his thoughts until they became nothing but dust. He wasn’t good at speaking his mind, and so you often had to tug them out. 

“ _ Cyar’ika _ ,” he whispered, so quiet that you almost missed it. The word came out broken, raw, gutterall, and it made your chest clench. 

“ _ Cyar _ ’ _ ika _ , I don’t . . .” 

You paused, waiting for him to string his thoughts together, but the words never came. A tug on his arm had him turning around, slowly shuffling his feet and lifting his head until he was facing you completely. 

He looked so  _ broken _ . 

You wanted to know what was wrong, what was shattered at his feet so you could clean up the pieces. But you knew that forcing words from him never worked, and your lips quirked up into a sad smile. You let your hand cup his face, brushing the damp hair from his brow.

One of your fingers tapped on his temple. “What’s going on in there?” you asked softly. 

As if you hit a crackling wall with a hammer, Din crumbled at your words, pulling you flush against him and burying his face in your neck. He mumbled something against your skin--something that was lost in the dip above your collarbone, something you didn’t quite catch. 

But then he said it again.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, his voice fragile and trembling.

Against your neck, you felt him squeeze his eyes shut, pressing into you harder. His hands were wrapped around your waist now--holding you as if you would slip through his fingers. 

_ I can’t do this anymore _ .

You knew exactly what he was talking about, and your heart broke. 

“I know,  _ cyar’ika _ ,” you breathed as you ran your fingers through his hair, pulling it back from his ears. “I know.” 

But he was already beginning to spill, words pouring out of him and dripping down your back like water from a broken pipe. 

“I don’t . . .” he began, his voice breaking. “Every time I leave, I don’t know if I’ll come back. I don’t know if I’ll see you again. And I can’t keep doing this to you, or to the kid, or . . .”

“Or yourself,” you finished. 

Din squeezed you a little harder. 

For another moment, you just held him, waiting for him to tie his words together again. And then, with his arms pressing into the bare skin of your back and his lips brushing against your clavicle, he confessed.

“I don’t want to keep . . .  _ surviving _ ,” he croaked. “I don’t want to wonder if I’m going to make it to sunrise, or if I’ll come back in one piece. I don’t want to be terrified that I’ll come home one day and you’ll be  _ gone _ \--”

“ _ Hey _ ,” you pulled back, prompting him to raise his head and meet your own gaze. 

“I won’t leave you,  _ cyare _ ,” you swore. “Never.” And you raised your hand between you both to prove it, letting the silver, handmade band glint in the dim lighting.

“Mhi solus tome,” he recited softly. Reminding you both of that night in the rain--of the promises you shared and the cloth rings you exchanged beneath the cloud-shrouded sky. 

You smiled. “Mhi solus dar’tome,” you reminded him.

_ We are one when together, we are one when parted _ .

And then, quietly, you asked, “What do you  _ want _ , Din?” 

You watched silently as he processed your question, his eyes trailing across your face as if taking it all in for the first time. One of his hands slipped from your back to trace your jaw, then moved back to your scalp to thumb a strand of hair. 

He inhaled deeply. “I want to see the kid play out in the field in the mornings,” he admitted in a gradual, easy breath. “I want to sit out on the porch and watch the suns set until it gets cold. I want the Crest to stay here, to grow old and rusty and for it to not matter. I . . .”

He paused--and then he dragged his eyes up to meet your own, and you swallowed thickly. 

“I want to wake up each morning, and I want to see  _ you.” _

You knew it was hard for him to say it--to confess that he wanted to abandon his Code, that he had been letting it stir within his stomach for much longer than you both knew. To tell you that he wanted to  _ live _ \--to not slip out the door and leave for months on end, to have to survive each day with the fear that he might never return home. He wanted domesticity, he wanted to raise the little one for as long as you both could. He wanted to  _ stay _ . 

But now it was out in the open, the words laying vulnerable and raw in a puddle at your feet.

And you were so, so grateful for it. 

“You want this?” you asked, more for him than yourself. You knew the answer--but he needed to confirm it, to set his wish in stone before he had the chance to second guess himself. 

He paused for a moment, hesitating. 

“Yes,” he breathed. 

For a moment, you remained silent. 

Just the thought of what he was proposing was near-overwhelming for you, let alone  _ him _ . It would be a difficult process, and he would need to find some other means of earning credits as he slowed bounty hunting to a stop--

But it was what he wanted. It was what you  _ both  _ wanted. 

Years ago, when you both repeated your vows and you eased the helmet from his head for the first time, something bleak and heavy had settled deep within your stomach. And when he was gone, and you were alone with your thoughts in the dead of night, that  _ thing _ scraped back up to the forefront of your mind and nearly suffocated you. Because deep down, buried underneath layers of dust, you were terrified that he would always be  _ gone _ . 

And that one day, he wouldn’t come back. 

You never brought it up to him, though you were sure that he knew what plagued you. It always hung thick in the air whenever he arrived home after a mission, coating the bedsheets whenever he left. Both of you wished that it wasn’t the case--that you could scrounge up credits some other way, that he didn’t have to live the lifestyle of cuts and bruises and smoking blasters. 

But that’s the way it was. 

And you loved him, so much more than you could express--and so the life you lived was always enough. It always  _ would be _ enough. 

But now . . . now Din wanted to give everything up. To drop everything at his feet and move on. To  _ live.  _

He watched with bated breath as you grinned. Water droplets fell from your lips as you leaned forward and brushed your lips against his, the touch featherlight and soft. 

“Okay,” you said against him. 

And it was as if that single word sent a wave of relief over him, and you could see through your lowered eyelids how his shoulders--the muscles that were knotted and tight, the bones that carried far too much for his own good--began to lower.

For the first time in years, you watched as he finally allowed himself to  _ rest _ . 

You began to lean back slightly but he was quick to pull you back in, tugging you into another kiss, more heated this time. 

“You’re alright with this?” he asked against your lips, pressing his forehead against your own. You didn’t need to open your eyes to see his expression--his pinched brows, the downturn of his mouth. 

“You hold the galaxy on your shoulders as if it were a curse,  _ cyare _ ,” you chided gently, rubbing a hand against his neck. “Let yourself breathe.” 

You both knew he would never admit it--how he punished himself out of self-loathing, how he was convinced he deserved the worlds’ evils as some sort of sick reparation for his duty as a bounty hunter. He thought his hands bloody and his soul tainted, that he was a man sworn to damnation. 

“Okay,” he eventually exhaled, pressing his lips against yours once more as he backed you up against the shower wall. “Okay.”

You were well aware that helping him learn to be gentle with himself was something that would take time--that it wasn’t overnight, that it wasn’t a process that was void of pitfalls and bad days. But still, he made the first step, and a few suns and constellations that he carried on his back for so long fell to the floor. 

That was already more than enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> check out my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/haildoodles-writing) for more fics and updates!


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